


I'll Show You Mine

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Asperger Syndrome, Gen, Mental Illness, Supernatural - Freeform, aspie!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people have writing on their wrists and some don't. The problem is to not let it define you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had long been known that people were born with words on their wrists. Not everyone, and not always from birth. Sometimes, they developed later on in life.

The words were related to a medical condition someone had. It could be a disease, a condition, a warning. John had heard tales of people who found causes of death on their wrists the day that they died. They may not have been true, but it fascinated him to think about. There was things they did do though. Medical conditions were spelled out on everyone's wrists. John knew a girl with 'epilepsy' etched on her wrist in charcoal grey. He'd seen numerous patients in hospital who developed 'cancer' and 'heart disease' and even some psychiatric patients who grew their mental illnesses from their scars, etched like leaves on their wrists.

 

After John came back from Afghanistan, four faint letters, penned carefully in cursive, emerged on his wrist.

People didn't need to see the letters to know what John had been through. Because while he tried to hide it, everyone could see it etched on his face, in the way he stood, spoke, _breathed._

John wore jumpers to hide them, regardless. He thought it was unfair anyone should be judged because of what was etched on their wrists (perhaps an extension of their DNA?) even though as a doctor, sometimes he couldn't help it.

It was always the first thing doctors did, when a patient came into A&E, or on the battlefield. Sleeves would be harshly yanked to reveal words, if there were any, carved into the delicate skin of the wrist. In many ways, it was like having a medical history. The most important bits anyway. When someone was unconscious and bleeding out, it was great to know if they were diabetic, asthmatic, or perhaps had some extra duct on their kidney. Whatever it was, information was power.

So John was thankful for the words.

On other people. On himself, they were not welcome.

It shouldn't have come as much as a shock as it did to find that Sherlock agreed. Perhaps it was because John had never considered Sherlock having any writing on him, perhaps it was because it was hard to think of him as even human, and therefore, capable of having flaws.

It was mostly through a fluke, an accident, that John finally caught a glimpse of colour on Sherlock's wrist.

 

It had been one of those John-got-home-from-work-and-Sherlock-grabbed-him-and-ran-right-out-the-door-on-a-case days.

It hadn't been a particularly busy or difficult day at the surgery, but John had been up until 2am the night before listening to Sherlock work out the kinks of a new piece. It seemed like he's just fallen asleep only to be woken up by an explosion in the kitchen. (It had actually been five whole hours, as Sherlock pointed out, but John was still unimpressed.) No harm was done, but John was up at seven for a shift that didn't start until ten.

It made for a less than happy day.

And John was taxed with the added burden of a mother who brought her daughter in to the clinic, the beginnings of 'type I diabetes' appearing on her wrist. That was one good thing about the words, John had heard stories about before them, when people would fall into comas resulting from untreated diabetes. Still, cases like those were always hard, and John was exhausted emotionally and physically by the time he got home, only to be dragged out the door by a Sherlock who was talking a mile a minute, no chance to even get a cup of tea or remove his coat.

 

Sherlock dragged him into a cab. John had been rather hopeful that Sherlock would explain then, but as John began to ask what was going on, Sherlock shushed him with a wave of the hands. _Obviously he was thinking._

John leaned his head against the window and watched London go by.

 

Twenty or so minutes later, they arrived who knows where. Sherlock bounced out of the cab, leaving John to pay. _Just once..._ he thought. _It would be nice if Sherlock payed._

“Sherlock,” he called wearily. “What are we doing?”

“The case John!” Sherlock had a bright look in his eyes, rather similar to a child given a present. _Same thing, really,_ John thought.

“Just refresh me, what case is this?”

“The one Lestrade gave me this morning of course!”

John sighed. “The one he gave you while I was at work?”

Sherlock hesitated for a split second. “Oh. I suppose so. No matter.” Sherlock continued moving towards the house the cab had dropped them by. It was rather large with an impressive front yard.

John was still clueless about what they were doing there, if they were looking for someone, and mostly, what the hell was going on.

“Sherlock-”

“Shh!” Sherlock hushed him violently. In fact, it was almost as loud as John's hushed whisperings. He rolled his eyes. _Counter-intuitive._

“There!” he whisper yelled, pointing to what John could soon make out as a running figure.

“Go around the other side,” he called, already rushing off behind the man.

John shook his head in exasperation, but obeyed. _Sherlock bloody Holmes, next time you are explaining all this in the cab._

Reaching the corner of the house, he peered around it before running head on into whatever mess there may be.

Sherlock may have had the long legs and a head start, but John had the side of the close much nearer to where they were when they both took off running. And now the man was lying in wait around the corner for Sherlock, who would surely not take the time to peek around.

 _If only Sherlock had given him enough time to grab the gun..._ John shook his head. Of course not.

John could even see the scene play out in his head. Sherlock would come around the corner, run right into the knife, probably in the abdomen. The man would leave Sherlock there to bleed to death, turn around, spot John, and likely stab him too, unless John could manage to disarm him with nothing but his bare hands while the man pointed a knife at him.

It wouldn't go well.

But apparently Sherlock had different plans, which included not dying today, because, amazingly, he didn't come running full blast around the corner, it was a stealth attack, and before John could really tell what was happening, Sherlock had hissed in pain, and the man was reeling from being headbutted.

Sherlock was holding his upper arm and the man was recovering enough to strike again, but he never knew what hit him when John tackled him from behind, accidentally cracking his head off the side of the house.

The man fell limp. John checked him over. Pulse fine, still breathing, but there was something slightly upsetting to John. _Schizophrenia_ was etched on his wrist in red angry letters. John's heart sank. Too often it was from a mental illness that people got violent. However uncommon it was, it was still much too often for his liking.

He shook his head. _But he is fine, we are fine, and now he can get the help he needs. No one died._

All was well. He turned his attention to Sherlock.

“What _the hell_ is going on?”

Sherlock hadn't even opened his mouth to speak yet (or perhaps he wasn't going to) when sirens and flashing lights were upon them.

“That would be Lestrade,” Sherlock muttered. “Late as always...”

 

Lestrade's hands were in his pocket, and despite this, he was still holding them out in a 'what the hell?' position.

“Honestly,” John said, shaking his head, “I have no clue what went on. I don't know what the case was, I don't know who that guy is,” he gestured towards the man who still looked rather stunned being herded into a police car. “But he was attacking Sherlock so I jumped on him.”

“Yes, and knocked him out,” Sherlock added impatiently. “This is all very good and everything, but we really have to be going.” Sherlock grabbed John's coat sleeve and pulled him towards the road.

John threw an apologetic look towards Lestrade, who only shrugged. John knew that if he wanted to know more, he could always come to the flat.

 

Spotting Sherlock's coat tucked up under his arm, John frowned.

“Why aren’t you wearing your coat?”

Sherlock only shrugged.

He'd been wearing his coat when they arrived. But what about when they were fighting the man? John couldn't recall.

“Umm... sure. Okay.”

They reached the street and Sherlock gestured to John to hail a cab. _Why the hell can't you do it?_ John thought bitterly. It was then that he noticed Sherlock's arm. Remembered the hiss of pain right before he jumped on the suspect.

“You're bleeding,” John noted, pointing to Sherlock's right arm. A dark patch, blood, could be seen despite the darkness of the shirt. Plus, it helped that the slash in the shirt which, obviously, led to the cut in Sherlock's skin, was gaping open, allowing John to see red on white.

“Hmm. So I am.” Sherlock shrugged his coat back on, wincing.

“I'm looking at that when we get back home.”

Sherlock didn't argue. Perhaps he realized he'd lose.

They piled in a cab. It was silent all the way back to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

Back at Baker Street, John sighed. “It looks like it'll need stitches. Or at least steri-strips. Sit down.” John gestured towards the stool at the kitchen table. Wracking his brain, he couldn't recall any particularly toxic experiments being done in the last few days, so the kitchen was probably safe to use.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You and your doctoring. Rather unnecessary if you ask me,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well, no one asked you. Now take your shirt off.”

Sherlock smirked. “Let's just hope Mrs Hudson didn't hear that.”

“Shut up. Just do it.”

Sherlock glared at him. “No.”

“No?” John repeated.

“No,” Sherlock replied. “Are you having difficulty understanding?”

John rolled his eyes. “I'm not sure what the issue is. You've wandered around the flat many times wearing nothing but a sheet. You even went to the palace wearing nothing but a sheet! And barely that...” he trailed off, remembering with a grin.

Sherlock smiled too. “That was different,” he declared.

John stopped smiling. “No, it wasn't,” he said firmly. “Now remove your shirt on your own or I will rip and or cut it off of you. Considering this is your favourite purple shirt, I'd be going with the first option if I were you.”

“I have other purple shirts, of course,” Sherlock retorted.

John raised an eyebrow. “I think you're bluffing. Do you really want to risk it?”

Scowling, Sherlock undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged the sleeves down his arms, leaving the material collected around his wrists and lower back.

“Well,” John said begrudgingly, “I suppose that will do.”

With practised hands, he examined the wound to Sherlock's upper arm.

“I'm going to have to clean it so I can see it better,” he told Sherlock.

Sherlock made a humming noise.

John turned to get a cloth, wetting it in the sink, and praying it wasn't used to wipe up exploded body parts or something equally gross.

He turned back to Sherlock and began gently cleaning the blood from the wound.

 

Sherlock shifted slightly, probably trying to avoid getting his shirt wet. _Silk isn't it? And silk can't get wet. I don't know why he didn't just take his shirt off completely. Just to be difficult?_ John sighed and continued wiping. When he was finished, Sherlock shifted again, and John caught a glimpse, a flash really, of something. Something shocking.

“Sherlock?” John said, reaching out to his wrist hesitantly.

Sherlock snatched his arm away, out of John's reach.

“What,” he snapped.

“Nothing. Sorry. I just thought...”

“Thought what?”

John shrugged. “I thought I saw something. On your wrist.”

“Well, you'd be correct,” Sherlock replied, not looking at him, clutching his arm to his chest like a broken wing.

“Okay,” John said gently. “So... I guess you don't want me to see it,” he said more to himself than Sherlock. “Okay,” he repeated. “But I don't know what the big deal is,” he said, shaking his head. “Most people have them. Lestrade, Harry, Donovan, Anderson, most of the people at the yard in fact, Sarah, Mrs Hudson...” he trailed off, seeing Sherlock's face grow more stormy rather than clear.

He stuck down the next steri-strip with slightly more force than was probably necessary.

He glanced at Sherlock, but there was no reaction indicating pain. He placed the last one more gently.

“There. Done,” he announced. “You don't have to cover it up you know. There's no reason to be ashamed. I've got one. I'm not sure what you think the big deal is.”

“Because it's there. Displayed to everyone,” he hissed. “I don't want it there for the world to see. Why do you think I work so hard to hide it?”

John scanned his memory, looking for a time, anytime really, that Sherlock's wrists and arms had been exposed in a carefree way that wasn't carefully calculated or used to prove a point.

“Oh,” John said faintly. “Yeah...”

“And the light comes on,” Sherlock added, rather bitterly.

“Can I see?” John asked. He expected Sherlock to refuse.

_I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Right. Like that'll work. He probably already knows._

John hesitated. But he had to ask. “Have you seen mine?”

“No,” Sherlock said flatly. _Oh. This could be good._ John opened his mouth to speak. “I don't have to,” Sherlock continued.

John snapped his mouth shut. Of course.

“And seeing as you're a doctor, you really shouldn't need to see my wrist to know.”

John rolled his eyes. “You're an excellent actor Sherlock. It's kind of hard to tell. With your intellect, you could pretend whatever you wanted.”

Sherlock considered this for a minute. “True, but keeping up the facade all the time would be immensely tiring. So when we go out...” he shrugged, “and at home... not so much. So. Hazard any guesses?” Sherlock looked towards John, expectantly.

“No,” John replied, rather firm in his answer. Sherlock looked shocked at this. “Because whatever I guess, whatever my rationalizations are for my answer, you will get upset. So. I do not want to guess, I just want to see.”

Sherlock pondered this thoughtfully for a moment. “I would not have gotten upset,” he said finally, but bitterly.

John rolled his eyes and gestured towards Sherlock's shirt, still crumpled around his wrists. Sherlock lifted his arms out of the sleeves, allowing the bloodied shirt to fall to the floor. He kept his left hand wrapped around his right wrist protectively.

Slowly, like a butterfly stretching its new wings, Sherlock uncurled his long fingers from around his wrist and uncovered the letters.

They weren't elegant like John's or angry like the man they'd met tonight's were. No, these letters were bold and blocky, like written by a child. But they were a shade of gold that John hadn't seen before, a shade that stood out on Sherlock's pale skin like sunshine.

Letters that made a word that Sherlock hadn't wanted John to see, but John had suspected from the beginning, from that first night when they went out to dinner (not on a date), from the first time Sherlock asked John “not good?” and from that first meltdown during the drugs bust. John had always suspected, and now he knew. _Asperger's._

Of course, Sherlock could see it on his face that it was confirmation to what he believed.

John felt Sherlock glare at his face, then he yanked his arm back, clutching it to his chest.

 

“I suppose you knew this all along,” he spat.

John sighed. “See, this was why I didn't want to guess. Because you'd get in a mood about me noticing things, then you'd get defensive, and then you would get like... this.” He sighed. “And yes, I did suspect this. But I'm a doctor Sherlock. I have experience in this sort of thing, and besides, I live with you. I'm going to notice things that others won't if that's what you're worried about. And you do hide it exceptionally well.”

John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked back for a brief second of eye contact before looking away again, back to his experiment.

“Of course. Mummy made sure of that.”

 

John could see it. Sherlock as a little boy, told to look at people when they were talking to him, that saying those things was not acceptable, even if they were true, that jumping about was not acceptable, even if you were thrilled beyond belief, that hand flapping and twirling were also not acceptable. He imagined a young Sherlock examining the word on his wrist, looking it up in the dusty dictionaries John was sure he owned, and reading about his definition. Hearing words said about him, limitations placed on him because of one simple word on a little boy's wrist.

 

“Don't do that,” Sherlock said, snapping John out of his thoughts. “Don't pity me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed towards his room.

John watched him retreat (because, really, that's what it was, a retreat) and rubbed his eyes, sighing. Sherlock was impossibly complicated, and it really didn't help anything that he seemed to take pleasure in either withholding information or feeding John false information about... well, everything about him. Sherlock could have been a triplet who was born in a barn for all John knew about him. Unlikely, he knew, but one could never be sure.

But the writing on his wrist, John had often wondered if Sherlock had anything, because most people did (not that Sherlock was like most people) but he'd never really seen Sherlock's bare wrists.

 

“Sherlock, come back,” he called, exhausted once again. “I didn't... I wasn't...”

Sherlock skulked back out to the kitchen a moment later, in his arms a new non slashed or bloody shirt.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he said flatly.

“Fine.” John hesitated, but felt he had to ask. “What about Mycroft?”

“What about him?”Sherlock asked shortly.

“I've never seen his wrists. Does he have anything?”

“Not yet.”

John nodded.

“But,” Sherlock added, “I think I see the beginnings of 'type II diabetes'. So...”

He smirked, and John couldn't help but smile along with him.

 

“Hang on,” John said after bandaging Sherlock and putting his supplies away. “Your shirt was ripped and slashed from the injury,” John said slowly. “So my ripping it off of you wouldn't have made any difference whatsoever.”

He looked at Sherlock suspiciously. “So why did you give in?”

Sherlock shrugged. “People would talk if you started ripping my clothes off.”

John rolled his eyes. “You don't care what people say,” he pointed out. “So it seems that you do have some shreds of consideration for self care left.”

“Right,” Sherlock replied, already distracted with planning a new experiment.

 

They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock scribbling down notes, John pecking away at a new blog post.

“It doesn't matter, you know. What it says.”

Not even looking up from his microscope, Sherlock replied. “Of course not. They're only words.”

John nodded, feeling that Sherlock wasn't really listening. “Which is fine, by the way,” he said, echoing what he'd said on that first strange night together.

“I know it's fine.”

Sherlock looked up at him and they smiled.   
_It's all fine._


End file.
